Demons from the Stars
by Akktri
Summary: Deadly beasts from space have descended upon Middle Earth. Can Gandalf stop this menace before all life perishes?
1. Chapter 1: Falling Stars

In the ages that have passed before these old gray eyes, I have seen much evil.

When the dragon brought its terror to the lands of Middle Earth, and the beastly Orcs dominated the realm with their cruelty, I thought I knew evil.

But then came the Dark Lord Sauroman and his shadowy minions that enslaved the countryside under the powers of darkness.

We paid a heavy price, but eventually even that crisis had ended, and I thought, for once, that the powers of evil and darkness would no longer strike fear in the hearts of the innocent.

But then the comets came.

It was winter solstice in the Shire, a time of festival. I'd been invited to this quaint little land by my good friend Frodo, of whom much has been written regarding the Quest for the Ring, and his close friend, Samwise, of course.

Frodo had invited other friends, too. Elves, dwarves, and Aragorn, a tall man like myself, all one time allies in the ring ordeal.

Why Frodo would return to such a backward, closeminded society after years of sailing and most unhobbitlike adventuring, I cannot guess, except to suggest, perhaps, that he was homesick.

Frodo used to live in the shire, with his family in Bag End. They're all hobbits, plump little people with hairy feet.

If you've never been to the Shire, it's a sleepy little place, looking like how a rabbit warren would if the rodents had saws and hammers and blown glass. They dwelt in the earth, hiding in their elaborately furnished caves, enjoying the best fruits of the land.

At the time of the festival, their homes were like snowbanks with chimneys, little round windows peering out of the mounds like eyes. Snow covered wreaths hung from their circular doors, but the doors themselves were clean due to the festival traffic. The moon was bright, giving everything a pleasant glow.

The town square held the glut of the merriment, most notably a band of musicians, a dance stage, and town merchants offering up various food and drink.

The presence of our guests proved awkward, since the townfolk were nervous and a little prejudiced, and the dwarves were insulting about the state of the strength of Hobbit ale, but on the whole it was peaceful, and those who didn't like the festivities or the town left early.

I, renowned for my fireworks displays, was obligated to provide additional entertainment. In reward for my labors, I was given a tankardful of the best ale Hobbiton had to offer, and some excellent pumpkin cakes, both which I enjoyed thoroughly. Since the Crisis of the Ring had been averted, I thought it reasonable to assume that I at last could afford to relax and take it easy.

My show was as good as can be expected. Among other things, I made knights in the sky fighting Shelob the queen of spiders, a dragon, and a majestic eagle.

When my fantastic performance was over, I sat on the Baggins family's front porch, drinking Hobbit ale and blowing smoke rings from my pipe, gazing at the sky.

The stars were bright, and I could clearly see the swordsman Menelmacar and Wilwarin the butterfly.

The falling stars came while I was studying the Telumendel constellation.

As a wizard, I am required to know vast volumes about the changes in the constellations and the behavior of comets and meteors, but what I saw in the sky that night did not fit into the category of anything I had ever witnessed before.

These shooting stars were too large, their shape a rounded rectangle like the leathern sheath on a dagger.

"It's fantastic!" Frodo said over my shoulder. "I've never seen comets like that in my life!"

His hair was bursting with curls, reminding me, to some annoyance, of a time in my youth when I attempted to create a perm by heating metal rods in a fire.

The boy was fidgeting with his hands again, idly running his fingers over the smooth stump that used to be his ring finger. I've told you about that shriveled imp Gollum, haven't I? Well, no matter, he's gone. It's not important.

Frodo's bare feet stood in an inch of snow, whereas I had to wear thick woolen socks to keep mine warm, and I still found them lacking. I frowned at them with their absently wiggling toes for a moment, then corrected his ignorant astronomical observation. "They're not comets," I said. "They're falling stars. Comets never come down from the sky like that."

My response was brusque, but I couldn't help it. Something about those meteorites seemed...wrong.

He gave me a brief frown, but since he was used to my rudeness, he brushed it off, remaining cheerful. "Anyway, it's really amazing." He kicked away a puff of snow.

"Yes it is," I muttered, sipping my ale. "Aren't your feet cold?"

"No. Are yours?"

I just drank some more. A couple years ago, I was ankle deep in snow, wearing robes thinner than what I had on now, as I braved blizzards on a mountain pass. Perhaps, despite all the life extending potions and rejuvenation serums, I was feeling my age.

"Rosie's got a nice fire going in there. You're welcome to come inside..."

I laughed. "And sit in one of those tiny chairs?"

"You're _sitting_ on one of those tiny chairs."

"It's a stool," I said. "And I'd prefer to sit in a place where I don't hit my head every time I go to use the chamber pot."

I raised the tankard. "I think I'll just finish this and go home."

He gave me a nod, walking back inside, and I sat with my back against Bag End, staring at the place where the comets, er, _falling stars_ had landed.

He closed the door, of course. To keep out the draft. Everyone else in town was doing the same, packing up their things, retreating into their little holes. It was like Hobbiton was at last giving me the cold shoulder.

When the tankard was empty, and I'd puffed enough tobacco, I half walked, half staggered my way to the tiny stable where they kept my horse, the only place in town where you could walk across a room without knocking your head against a beam.

Paying the stable keeper, I opened the stall, mounted my horse, a beautiful cream colored stallion, and rode right into a beam. In my inebriated state, I forgot you could only _walk_ into the stable without injury.

Somehow, I stayed on my horse long enough to get halfway down a lane before tumbling off into a snowdrift.

I awoke on a bed two feet shorter than my body, with my feet propped up on a row of chairs, and short quilts laid across both ends of my body.

I stared at the rounded boards, the green and black walls, the roaring fireplace, the fine wood furniture.

Bag End.

A small frizzy haired blonde woman was looking up at me, offering me another quilt.

Rosie Cotton the bartender, of course.

Formerly. Now she's Rose Gamgee.

Sam's wife. I always thought he would have had enough of rings after our little adventure.

"No thank you," I moaned. "I was just getting up."

I tried to sit up, but hit my head on an overhanging board.

"Sorry about that, sir. I'll go get Sam."

A few moments later, a fat faced thick limbed male Hobbit stepped in, followed by Frodo, both giving me knowing grins.

"I see you decided to stay the night!" Sam grinned. "Very good, sir!"

I groaned and rubbed my head.

"You should be careful with Stonehill's ale," said Frodo. "He's been traveling abroad, learning some things from the dwarves."

"And potions from wizards," I muttered. "Remind me again why the dwarves left?"

He laughed. "I thought you'd sampled dwarven ale."

I threw my legs over the side of the bed. "Not for a very long time."

Rosie came in with a bubbling concoction in a bowl. "Old Bree hangover cure. It's got willow leaves and some other things in it. It's a little bit more effective than the local cure."

I had potions that made a man walk an hour after passing out in a stupor just minutes before, but I decided to accept it, since they went through all the trouble of mixing it for me.

A bitter swill of plant leaves, vinegar and raw eggs. Dreadful stuff. Rosie claimed there was honey in it, but I couldn't even taste it.

When I heard someone shouting my name, I was actually relieved, because it gave me an excuse to set the putrid stuff aside.

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" they kept shouting.

"Oh what now!" I grumbled, rising to my feet.

The shire had a doctor, a healer, but the healer couldn't always cure everything, so they sometimes came to me with their medical problems, wounds, diseases, poisonous snake bites. One time I even delivered a baby. If it's another one of those, I thought, I'm going to be very upset.

And if Andy Roper has having trouble urinating again, he's going to have to talk to someone else.

Staggering through the tiny boarding house, I hit my head on a beam en route to the main den.

A rail thin Hobbit stood on the rug in front of me, a long faced male with unkempt brown-black hair and dark circles under his dull blue eyes.

Nob Appledore. The town thief. The kind of thief that steals from other Hobbits instead of dragons.

The fact that he wasn't pocketing anything told me this was serious.

"Gandalf!" he cried. "It's Grifo Boffin! Something's wrong!"

He turned and ran through the door, leaving me to stumble awkwardly behind, knocking a chandelier to one side as I dodged another head injuring beam.

Outside in the snow, I saw five Hobbits gathered around a makeshift stretcher formed out of cloaks and logs. The plump faces were drawn and pale as they stared at the body.

A body in green and brown winter clothing, with a pale salmon colored creature wrapped around its face.

I'd never seen such a thing before in my life. A six legged spider-like beast with a long muscular tail which wrapped around the Hobbit's neck like a wild jungle snake.

"He followed the comets to the forest," Nob said. "And upon the ground, we discovered a metal house, filled with the dead bodies of giants and large green eggs. This creature..." He shuddered. "It attacked him when he tried picking one of them up."

"By the names of all gods..." I cried, tugging on the tail.

"I wouldn't, sir," said a tan black haired youth named Harding Gardner. "It only wraps itself around tighter."

I dug in my pocket, but then realized my hosts had helpfully set my things on top of a dresser for my repose.

Seeing a knife sticking out of Ferumbras ("Fiver") Took's pocket, I asked to see it.

"Again," Harding said. "I wouldn't." And he pointed to the burns on Erling Greenhand's face. "Its blood burns."

"What devilry is this," I muttered, at a complete loss as to what to do.


	2. Chapter 2: Tears of Nienna

If Gandalf the Gray could not remove this creature from Grifo's neck, then no one could.

I returned to the room I had slept in, hitting my head only once. The hangover cure, it seemed, was doing its job.

Once I had returned to my temporary quarters, filling my pockets with the tools of the wizard's trade, I returned to my victim, struggling to formulate an appropriate strategy.

Although I knew it would do no good, I unclasped the hilt of my sword from its sheath on my belt. "Take him inside," I said. "It behaves like a serpent, so let's see if the warmth loosens it up."

The suggestion proved to be unhelpful. The moment Grifo was laid before the fire, he began to moan and spasm uncontrollably, but no one wanted to return to the cold outside, and I was hard pressed to say whether it truly was the temperature that was causing these disturbances.

For the next hour, I prepared various potions in a desperate attempt to save the Hobbit.

I applied tools and various oils to no effect.

I stirred a putrid mixture of myrrh, sulfur and skunk glands, but it only served to fill Bag End with an intolerable odor that caused the windows to be left open until the following winter.

Using a glass vial, I made careful incisions on the creature's body, in hopes of drawing the life out of it, but this caused the creature to tighten around the victim.

I poured a solution of henbane and ipecac into the place where the victim's mouth remained open.

When the victim began to vomit, both from the nose and mouth, I expected either the creature to be forcefully expelled, _or_ the victim to suffocate, but neither occurred, for reasons unclear to me, even at the time of this writing.

If only I had owned a large machine with which to create automatic paintings of the innards of this patient. So much would have been clarified, so much damage prevented.

The Hobbits gave me hopeful looks, confident that my great power could cure anything.

Brienna, Grifo's wife, had been with us the moment I'd called for henbane. While I brooded upon our dismal situation, she took a damp cloth, wiping the vomit from his nose and mouth, which seemed to have a calming effect.

A bold and foolhardy one, that woman. But then again, the creature hadn't moved for quite some time.

I asked for a fuller's whitener, applying that to the creature's abdomen, and the substance foamed, causing a reaction in the beast's body like I had injured it.

Since enough damage had been done to the victim's windpipe, I stopped my experiments, rising to my feet.

It seemed that only the gods of Middle Earth could save this Hobbit now.

Raising my staff, I called out to Nienna, lady of the merciful healing tears, Esté, wife or Irmo, healer of hurts of weariness, and Mandos, the ruler of the dead, to not take this Hobbit.

I even dared to summon the aid of all powerful Manwé.

Nienna must have known my plight, for once I began a second incantation in her name, I noticed the creature falling away from Grifo's face, sprawling on its back like a spider that got too close to a candle.

It appeared to be dead.

To make sure, I drew my sword and stabbed the thing in the midsection.

Its blood burned a hole in the carpet, but it didn't move. So far so good.

I knelt by the victim's side and checked his airways.

They all appeared to be clear. He was mercifully unconscious still. His pulse beneath my fingers felt faint but steady.

His body seemed to be wholly untouched. Had it been any other animal, he would have been missing his tongue, or part of his face.

What was this monster doing on Grifo's face? What had been its objective?

I pulled up a stool and just observed my patient, unsure as to what to do.

Rosie brought me some tea to stimulate my mind as I continued to brood. Away from my books and my domicile, I was at a disadvantage.

The beast obviously had some sort of instinctual imperative or it would not have clamped down around the Hobbit's windpipe so tenaciously.

Was it for breeding? No, of course not. That would be absurd!

I dismissed the idea twice before I considered experiments I'd made with a telescope in a pond near my boyhood home.

In the murky depths, I'd seen frogs lay eggs in the muddy clay, to be irrigated with nutriment by a passing male.

Could this creature have done such a thing using flesh instead of mud?

It was only an assumption because I could not actually see inside the Hobbit's body. Perhaps it had only devoured the internal organs one could not see from Grifo's mouth and nose.

I decided, in case my assumption about the eggs was correct, that another dose of ipecac would be beneficial, so I poured it down his throat and turned him on his side the moment the vomiting commenced.

The moment his stomach emptied and I lay him on his back, he awoke with a start and began screaming.

He thrashed like mad, so badly that I required the assistance of several Hobbits to keep him still.

When his thrashing ceased, his chest exploded, drenching I and everyone nearby in a shower of blood.

A tiny white head, not unlike that of a serpent, but without eyes, emerged from the gore, sadly proving my supposition about eggs to be correct.

Before I could properly react, the beast sprang from the ruptured rib cage, scampering away into the hidden recesses of Bag End.


	3. Chapter 3: The Metal Boat

My elven blade was lightweight and durable. Although the creature's blood burned a hole int he rug, it had not affected my sword. Still, I didn't want to press my luck, so I sprinkled baking soda on it and wiped it with a tattered piece of rug.

Rosie frowned. "That was such a nice rug."

"And Grifo was a nice Hobbit," Nob moaned.

I followed the trail of blood down into the depths of Bag End, hitting my head twice as I had been far more focused on tracking down the little beast before it killed again.

"Fastolph Bolger is dead!" someone shouted.

I hurried faster, guarding my head with one hand.

The Hobbit hole had many rooms. I bumped into chairs in the dining room, following the blood to a cellar where a pair of Hobbits, old Gaffer Gamgee and Nibs, Rose's brother, stood staring at the bloody corpse of their grossly overweight friend.

"The snake just launched itself at him, boring right into his belly like it belonged there!" Nibs cried with disgust.

I knelt in front of the body. "Is it still in there?"

Both nodded slowly.

We wrapped the heavy body in a rug, lugging it out to the edge of town, and set it on fire, building a pyre on top of him in hopes of incinerating whatever little beast resided in there.

"We must give him his last rites," said Nibs.

The elderly Gamgee nodded.

And so I gave him the rite of Mandos.

When the rite ended, we added logs, staring morosely as the flames did their slow work on the poor slob's body.

All of a sudden, I saw the snake burst from Fastolph's stomach, but I was prepared, drawing my blade within seconds of the head appearing.

The blade caught the beast through the head, producing a spray of smoking acid, which melted the iron gauntlet I wore, causing me agonizing pain.

I shoved the blade in deeper, gritting my teeth as I wiggled it back and forth, shoving the creature in the flaming coals over and over until it moved no more.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I cleaned and sheathed my sword, then applied vinegar and salves to my scalded sword hand.

"It's a shame," Nob said from behind me. "He was the best baker in town."

I reflected he was, perhaps, the one that crafted that delicious pumpkin cake I tried. Indeed, this was a shame.

"You said that thing had a house," I said.

"Yes sir?"

I spun around to face him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I heard one mentioning there were giant bodies and eggs. In the plural."

"You are not wrong. That is what I told you."

I grabbed Nob by the shoulders, giving him such a wild gaze that I saw the color drain from his face.

"Show me," I shouted. "We may already be too late!"

The shooting star had landed miles beyond the great mill, and the Sharkey's Shipping establishment. Our path took us around the haunted Sackville estate, and through a forest clad in winter garb.

Astride my white stallion, and Nob on his sluggish brown plug horse, we took a treacherous slanting trail, which curved around a hillside, then crossed a tall ridge, where, once cresting the top, one could see a sickly sort of forest full of barren trees reaching out at the sky like gnarled witch fingers.

From here, the damage from the shooting stars had become evident, a number of elms bent and fallen over like that Ninepins, that favorite pastime of Bree.

The Lost Forest. Notorious for being the final address of many missing Hobbits, beer kegs, and buried treasures. Its repute had dulled somewhat over the years, as evidenced by the bold Hobbit's expedition there.

Of course, it could have also been due to the addition of new easy to spot landmarks.

The Ninepins reference is not unique to me. As we were crossing the ridge, I _did_ hear Nob saying, "See? It looks like someone should get a spare if they throw once more."

Hee hee hee. I didn't bother to acknowledge this pathetic attempt at humor with a reply.

The lack of foliage made it harder to get lost. A careful eye might even find the legendary Cask of Blanco Stonehill, though I doubt that any vintage from the careless Shire founder would be very much more than vinegar at this point.

We rode onward and inward. I stowed my pointy hat as the branches swung dangerously low, and I was reminded of the ancient legend of Daros of Demikos, a man whose long hair got caught in trees just like this one.

That man got drawn and quartered by Orcs, his body parts delivered to kings in all four regions of the world.

Now that's a cheerful thought.

The "house" was not what I expected. Smashed up against a groaning broken tree, the thing reminded me of a boat.

Although crafted of an entirely impractical alloy of metal, the rounded front end resembled a prow, its opposite a stern.

A queer little vessel, not quite the size of a frigate, but definitely not a raft.

No deck, no lookout or windows, no apparent place for a captain to stand and steer. A gray rudderless vehicle carved all about with mystical runes, the types of which I had never laid eyes on before. Its door, an impractically wide thing at the bottom, hung open all the way, displaying rows of green eggs the size of barrels, and the slumped form of a dozen giants with faces pale and bleached cloth.

As I dismounted and cautiously approached the thing, the tree above me groaned threateningly, but remained in place.

I touched the hull of this contraption. Warm to the touch, despite the winter clime, and it vibrated beneath my fingers.

Drawing my sword, I edged toward the opening.

The room beyond was gray, unadorned with any sort of decoration save for strange square devices which flickered with multiple colors of cold fire.

The eggs all showed signs of being recently hatched, their upper portions folded open like something had crawled out from under a blanket.

Other than that, the eggs, and the bodies, the chamber proved to be empty, save for piles upon piles of hexagonal barrels of various shapes and sizes, and seamless cylindrical objects resembling drums from the south seas, coated in black ooze.

I checked the pulses of these strange men, but they were all dead.

With great trepidation, I pried open one of the barrels with my knife and found a dead man inside, this one smaller, with pink skin.

I quickly closed it, wondering what wickedness had been cast from Manwei's celestial kingdom.

At great risk to my life, I continued my explorations, leaning over one of these open eggs, staring inside.

The egg contained a yellow sludge, like a sickly pudding made of old bananas, and a peculiar sort of maggot with legs of a water strider and a tail of a worm swam about in it.

I was about to satisfy my scientific curiosity with a few samples when I heard Nob yelling, "Gandalf! Come take a look at this!"

When I emerged, following Nob's leading, I came across a giant bear with one of those spider creatures affixed to its face.

I leaned over to experiment with it, but Nob tugged the sleeve of my robe.

"Gandalf."

I looked up.

What I saw before me caused me to swear by every god on Middle Earth.

It wasn't just one bear. There were three.

And deer, horses, Orcs and dwarves.

"Gods!" I gasped. "And this isn't the only boat!"


	4. Chapter 4: Trial and Error

"Someone's been grasping at my face!" Nob muttered in a false low voice as he stood over the bear. He then raised it an octave as he looked at the other one. "Someone's been grasping at my face!" And then he cackled like mad.

He was trying to cope, I suppose. Gallows humor.

I ignored him, digging in my robe for tools.

With animals and beasts as my test subject, I was freed to be more liberal in my experimentation. If I lost a beast, it would sadden me, but if I saved it, it would prove to be a great boon that would leave man and nature alike in my debt.

The bear was the biggest, most obvious subject, so I chose this one to begin my experimentation.

The first order of business was severing the serpent's tail of this vile thing, a luxury I had not been able to do before in good conscience. With a crude mask made from a few window shards and a gauntlet I borrowed from Frodo, lined with a leather glove, I sawed through it with a dagger.

Frightful business, rescuing a bear. The mighty arms could easily tear a man in half, the claws ripping through flesh like warm butter. And it was this harrowing ferocity I encountered, even as I attempted to save the poor thing's life.

True to form, as I sawed, the little brute tightened and squeezed the bear's windpipe until it expired, the bear nearly killing me in the process. However, it was I who was the victor. The spider beast quit the carcass at once, fleeing into a thicket.

It seemed without a live body, the serpent creatures had not a suitable womb from which to hatch.

The trouble was, this was no more practical than allowing the creatures to conduct their ordinary affairs unimpeded.

I speared the one smothering the second bear on the tip of my sword, but the poor victim again suffocated, this time due both to the flood of burning blood and the constriction of the creature's tail. Before dying, the bear tore into my face, leaving a row of bloody claw marks as a parting shot. Thankfully the wounds were only superficial. Nob was worried, but I told him I was all right, and I continued my experiments.

"Are you sure that's safe, Gandalf?"

"Perfectly. It's only a dying man's thrashing. Far more hazardous would be the type of foolhardy teasing your friends are wont to do with such careless abandon."

I moved on to the last of the (sigh) Three Bears. The removal of the evil parasite's legs resulted in strangulations similar to my previous two attempts. I narrowly avoided injury this time, but only just.

I got quite practiced at spearing them on my sword as they leapt from the carcass, shielding myself from disgust by making mental comparisons to impaled olives in alcoholic drinks, of which I would have much more rather been imbibing at the moment.

During my visits with the elves in Rivendell and other sites, I was acquainted with the concept of pressure points, sensitive regions of the spirit which cause pain and paralysis in the body. I doubted these demonic pests had any spirit, but they still showed signs of experiencing pain. I therefore dabbled with incisions in carefully selected regions to see which caused the beast to expire.

I expected Nob to flee me, or turn away in disgust as I continued these mutilations, but he displayed an unhobbitlike curiosity regarding such things, the likes of which I had not seen in the heroic Frodo, or even Bilbo his father. An ordinary Hobbit shudders and looks away from gruesome sights such as these, but it seemed my wide eyed companion would have written down notes, had he possessed the proper instruments to do so. I saw in Mr. Appledore a great potential to be a medical examiner if he only applied himself.

After killing several more of these parasites, I at last came across a lobe which caused the thing to spasm, though unfortunately not in the way I had wished. It was as a man would bite off his own tongue upon receiving a blow to the head. If the secret lay in this lobe, it would require the injection of poisons, relaxants, or nerve deadening agents.

The dwarf as dead by the time I reached him, but I had doubts about his survival from the start.

The Orc, well, I saw him as a mere beast anyway.

Finished with my rudimentary experiments, I enlisted Nob's aid, and the aid of our horses, to gather the carcasses together.

"Have you found it, Gandalf?" Nob asked eagerly. "Have you discovered a way to remove these horrid Face Graspers?"

Face Graspers.

I frowned.

A culture-less unsophisticated name for an ugly, unsophisticated foe.

Fitting, I thought.

As a sorcerer, I strive to maintain good relationships with the spirits of nature, so it pained me to set fire to so many animals, but it couldn't be helped. My attempts to save them had come to naught, so I had no choice.

I only hoped that the spirits would see as I did, that their children were sick with a malignant blight, a tumor that must be excised and not allowed to spread, or risk infecting the countryside with its corruption.

For this reason I made offerings and spoke apologies to these spirits as I set about dousing the poor infected beasts with fire potions.

Supplies in Hobbiton were substandard at best, but my concoctions withstood the test of the damp and snow and I soon was able to build a massive bonfire upon the unfortunate bears with a pile of icy logs.

As the carcasses boiled in the flames, the serpents emerged from their burning wombs as expected, and I played the game of hunt and stab.

I tried my best to eliminate every one that burst free, but I was only one man, and my companion was not a hunter nor a swordsman. He was only a thief, eluding apprehension by stealth and mere luck rather than brawn. For this reason, several of these `Chest Rupturers' (Nob's term, not mine) escaped into the forest, burrowing into gods knows what host.

As I slew the last Rupturer I could find and tossed another carcass onto the bonfire, my ears suddenly noticed the sound of bells and hoofbeats.

Turning, I found myself staring at a procession of splendidly caparisoned steeds, bearing the intertwined symbols of Arnor and Gondor.

Rolling my eyes, I ignored the finely dressed riders, throwing another sodden log on the fire.

"Gandalf Greyhame!" a man shouted. "His majesty the King Elebar Telcontar requires your assistance!"

"Go away!" I yelled back. "Can't you see I'm busy!"

And then I saw the man himself.

The noble warrior so crucial to the success of the War of the Ring.

Aragorn son of Arathorn.

His clothes were fine, worthy of royalty, yet practical enough for a second war. On his head he wore the crown of the two kingdoms.

He was long haired and bearded, just like I remembered him. He had kept well groomed over these years. Life had been treating him well, but, to my relief, he had kept in shape and not allowed himself to go to seed.

"Too busy to help an old friend?"


	5. Chapter 5: Crossbow

I straightened, patiently waiting for my visitor to approach.

When he neared, I supplied my trademark sarcasm. "You seem oddly familiar," I said.

"As do you," he smiled. "It's been a long time."

"Am I required to bow?" I said. "Or will a tip of the hat suffice?"

Of course, the point was moot. My hat, being an impediment to the hard labor I had recently undertaken, had been removed.

He chuckled. "I wonder if it should be I that bows to you, dear friend."

I waved the suggestion away. "The mere thought of being a king chafes me."

"I thought it might."

I returned my hat to my head. "So what brings you down to this gods forsaken country backwater? Getting an itch to sample the local flavor?"

"The ale, perhaps?" Nob suggested.

Aragorn sighed. "Alas, I would give my crown to be traveling here under such idle pretenses."

I frowned, stroking my beard. "I suspected you might."

He stared at the swelling bonfire, grimacing at the unpleasant smells of singed fur, Orc, and Dwarven flesh.

"Do you have any incense?" Nob moaned. "This odor is most foul!"

"I imagine you would need a considerable quantity," Aragorn coughed.

I pulled a small vial of myrrh out of my pocket, offering it to him. "Dab some of this around each of your nostrils."

He did so, and immediately set to coughing. "This is horrid!" he exclaimed.

"Still," I smirked. "`Tis better than the smells of burning flesh, is it not?"

He just shook his head.

Aragorn frowned at a dead Orc. "What's all this, then?"

I waved at a blackening grizzly. "This, is the product of some unholy demon from the sky, that's what this is. The gods appear to have loaded boats full of dead bodies and these `face graspers' and thrown them down on Middle Earth like so much refuse."

The king seated himself on a log, apparently shaken by the revelation.

I gave him a grim smile. "I take it Gondor has been struck by something similar."

"Indeed," he stammered. "A boat was found in the Pelennor Fields, housing bodies, just as you described."

The man swallowed. "Ben Sharkey and his Orc friend, they brought the eggs in a wagon. The fools!"

I shook my head. "I fail to see why you allowed Orcs to do business in the White City to begin with. Their mere presence should set off warning bells."

"Ah, Gandalf," he said. "Much has changed. The moment I opened up the society to a form of democracy, the people began to get strange ideas, like equal rights for Orcs. They have families, you know."

Nob's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "You're mad!"

It made even less sense to me. "You'd think, after such a bloody, violent war, with so much loss of life..."

"They say war is a catharsis, and in its wake, a nation can be brought together in harmonious unity. And even in the most violent of wars, one can find acts of mercy, and, dare I say it, acts of love. Have you heard the story of the widow that took in the wounded Orc general?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nob's jaw dropping in surprise. "What about the wounded...?"

"Spare me," I groaned.

"Their children, to put it politely, have an unusual appearance."

Nob suddenly looked sick to his stomach.

"I should say so."

The man winced, apparently offended by my lack of racial sensitivity. "By the by, I would advise against describing Minas Tirith as the White City. It tends to make one extremely unpopular."

I hardly cared what anyone thought of me, so I replied with a disinterested "Ah."

"I have an Orc as an adviser. His name is Skalg."

I found this most foolhardy, but I held my tongue, staring sullenly into the fire.

"Tragic waste of bear meat," Aragorn muttered as he eyed the carcass.

"You're welcome to it," I said. "It's good to see that your newfound nobility has not yet left you detached from the cares of the common man.

He gave me a small smile, and we were silent again.

"Surely you must know something about how to stop these...`Graspers.'"

"We've just spent the last hour prodding them with swords," Nob said. "They appear to have no vulnerabilities."

I frowned, prepared to dispute his claims of involvement in my experiment, but Aragorn responded forthwith.

"Did you just say `_we_'?"

Nob shrugged.

The young king gave me an incredulous stare. "Has the great wizard at last taken on an apprentice?"

I burst out laughing. "Hardly!"

But then, as I happened to meet eyes with Mr. Appledore, I began to wonder.

The question was, would this strange randomly selected Hobbit be trusted with even a portion of a wizard's incredible power?

The answer, I gave myself, was a resounding no.

Not yet.

"Our previous Hobbit companions have intentions of settling down. Mr. Appledore here, however, appears to be in need of constructive activity, as were his unfortunate friends."

We again regarded the fire in silence.

"No solutions then," Aragorn muttered.

"None so far," I replied. "There's a lobe on their front end, but it makes no difference. Our every attempt results in a fatality."

"We need to find the chest rupturing serpents that have fled us," Nob said. "Lest they kill again."

"The abominations have escaped," I said. "Even now they roam the countryside, inflicting death. If only I had a magical device with which to detect motion."

"How many escaped?" Aragorn asked.

I confess that I didn't know, due to being otherwise occupied.

"Six," said Nob.

I clapped my hands. "Nob, you wonderful Hobbit! You are just full of surprises! Pray tell, how did you arrive at that number?"

He shrugged. "I thought if I couldn't do anything else, I might as well make myself useful."

This statement made me raise an eyebrow. "You certainly appear to be doing just that."

I did not expand on this praise. No use giving him a swelled head.

Seeing that it was already approaching dusk, I jumped to my feet. "I fear we have dallied too long before this blaze. We must hurry and search the woods for signs of these foul creatures. It is likely they have killed while we have been otherwise occupied. Perhaps we can use the bloodshed as a way to track their progress."

Aragorn also rose to his feet. "I enjoy a good hunt. In fact, if you don't mind..."

He blew on a ram's horn. "Skalg! Come forward, dear sir! I have need of your services!"

During our little fireside chat, I had examined the king's party as they tended their horses and talked amongst themselves. Two white men, one man of a dark color, and a tan woman with unusually thick lower eyelids.

It had only been a cursory examination, for I now discovered there had been a fifth individual in this party, a burly figure with midnight black skin, horns and a lopsided pig's face.

He appeared in our midst without a sound, clad in a fine dark tunic and leggings, with a crossbow strapped on his back. With the cape, gloves and the elegant boots, he had the appearance of a dandy, though I wasn't sure who was supposed to be impressed.

"How can I assist you, O king?" this thing said in a voice like a goat choking on gravel.

"Skalg, my good man. There are Face Graspers and chest rupturing snakes loose in these woods. If you can help us locate and destroy all six, we would be most appreciative."

The creature pounded its arms across its muscular chest. "It is an honor to serve you, my Lordship."

Having an Orc in our party proved to be advantageous. After performing a song of mourning for the fallen kin he spotted in the blaze (to ensure its soul's release from its body), a couple sniffs, a nibble of tree bark and a search of the ground yielded immediate results.

Skalg pointed to a thicket. "The things go here." He pointed at a tree. "And there." He pointed to three other spots.

"The wounded one will be simple to spot unaided," he said. He then aimed a claw at some bushes. "My king, you are clever, so I suggest you go after the one which traveled thus."

The Orc directed my Hobbit friend to the tree. "Perhaps you and the wizard can make an attempt on the wounded one, but I do not have much confidence in either of you. I suspect a blind child will do better."

I frowned. "You did not hire him for his manners, did you, Aragorn?"

`His Lordship' shook his head. "But one could not ask for a better bodyguard."

Aragorn summoned his aides to search the other areas, and the sun was rapidly descending, so I decided it time to work on my tracking skills.

"A blind child." The arrogance of the beast!

As I studied the ground, I thought, have I really gotten that soft? And why had Aragorn not informed his unsavory ally of all the times my tracking abilities were a lifesaving benefit to countless Hobbits, dwarves, elves and humans alike?

I searched a bush, partially destroyed by acid, still fuming over this.

He was just a dumb beast after all.

Perhaps it's best that they don't know. The most dangerous foe is the one you least suspect.

Remembering the place from which the tail-less Face Grasper had leapt, I traced the melted snow and acid damaged twigs through snowy branches, icicle laden bushes, and weeds enclosed in sleeves of ice.

We traved its tail through a log and down a slanting hill.

Along the way, I heard Nob curse about stubbing his toe. It seemed having Hobbit feet wasn't always the best thing in the world. When will they ever learn how to wear shoes?

While I searched the ground, pondering how such a clumsy Hobbit could possibly succeed as a burglar, I noticed him waving a glistening black hollowed out staff in front of my face. "Gandalf! What do you make of this?"

In all of my travels, I had never seen such an object. Its upper portion was cylindrical and as long as my arm, encased in a sort of square housing, lined with ribs. Below, it had a kind of pull mechanism, similar to a crossbow.

As an experiment, I peered between a pair of posts affixed to the top of the cylinder, tugging back on the small handle.

It was damned lucky that I had the sense to point the open end of the tube away from my person, and Nob, for the infernal rod let out a tremendous bark, causing a portion of a nearby tree to split in half like a bolt of lightning had struck it.

"Great gods, Gandalf!" Nob cried. "What in the world is that thing?"

I scratched my head, peering in the open end, which now smoked like a discarded pipe. "It appears to be a magically enhanced crossbow."

"Why would someone discard such a thing in the middle of the woods?" he asked as I examined the device, sliding the box attachment back and forth on the crossbow shaft.

I made no reply, picking up a pair of little golden arrowheads that had fallen out of the device during my experimentation. It appeared I had made a small pile.

Deciding I might need them again, I stuffed them and the others in my pocket, then set about searching along the way we came.

A span behind us, I discovered the body of a man with a shaven head, clad in soft textured green raiment and boots molded from a material I could not easily identify. Around his neck I found a bead necklace with a pair of engraved silver talismans hanging from it. His chest had been ruptured.

I would have continued my investigations, but at that particular moment, my eyes beheld a dark man sized shape leaping at my companion from the trees.

He screamed and tumbled out of view.

I gripped the box attached to the cylinder on my newest acquisition, rammed it back and forth, then gripped the release lever portion, marching off to the Hobbit's aid.


	6. Chapter 6: Guns and Elbereth

My eyes had never observed a creature like the one that held my young friend in its clutches.

At first glance, the beast appeared to be a dark sort of lion, but upon closer examination, one could see the dragon-like plates upon its form, though it more resembled a grotesquely large ant or a beetle than it did a dragon.

The thing had no eyes, and steaming saliva dripped from its gaping maw, causing Nob to scream as it burned his face.

Wasting no time, I aimed the strange crossbow at the creature's head and fired.

The beast shrieked as gore exploded from its head, and its poor victim, caught in a shower of caustic blood, responded with screams of his own.

"Turn your head, Hobbit!" I shouted. "And rub your burns in snow!"

Not the most elegant or effective method, but one had to stay the damage somehow.

I fired another shot, and the creature quit its victim, turning its attentions fully upon me.

"A Elbereth!" I intoned, summoning the powers of that old god. "Githoniel o mendel palan-diriel le nallon si di'nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

In response, the trees rattled, the icicles shook, and I thought for sure Elbereth Starkindler would descend from the heavens to deliver me.

This did not occur, possibly due to the fact this solemn hymn had been invoked numerous times during the War of the Ring, and the gods needed rest. Else, they had lost patience with the cries of man and other creatures, devoting their energies solely to the elves. Either way, it seemed the fates were against me.

I aimed the crossbow again and pulled the trigger, but it refused to bark.

It was nigh on my chest before I discovered the magical crossbow had to be coaxed into operation by the movement of the rectangular attachment on the rod piece.

I wounded it thrice more before it had me pinned to the snow and soil, whence I lay chanting what I hoped to be my most powerful spell.

I turned my head as I did this, careful to avoid the burning gobs of sputum, and as I chanted, it appeared that the gods had answered me, for my hands began to glow, and I felt unnatural strength imbued upon them.

Miraculously, I was able to shove the beast aside, despite it weighing as much as a small horse, and heretofore too great a burden for me to lift .

As I arose and searched the ground for my missing portable cannon, I witnessed a rain of arrows penetrating the shiny hide of this great beast, a pair of Aragorn's aides standing ready with nocked bowstrings, the angular faced woman from a distant land, and the pale skinned man with oddly short cropped hair.

The creature anticipated them firing, and lashed out first.

The white man took the brunt of the creature's fury, for he stood nearest. Its claws tore into him like an infuriated mountain lion.

The flat nosed woman with the narrow eyes fired upon the thing, but when she saw that it did little to deter it from slaying her companion, she drew a slender, curved blade, slicing into the beast's body with a quick but stylized motion.

By this time her fallen ally succumbed to his wounds and died, but this did not deter her from seeking revenge.

Alas, upon cutting into it, her non-elvish blade crumbled from the beast's caustic fluids, reducing the weapon to a flimsy corroded stick.

I fired more projectiles from the mobile cannon, but the creature, infuriated, made short work of the woman, then redoubled its hostilities upon my person.

As mentioned previously, I, in my experience with the device, had created a small mound of golden arrowheads, which I had pocketed, rather than place them back in the device from the start. It would require careful examination, of which I hadn't the luxury in that particular circumstance.

After I had fired a tetrad of bolts, two of which traveling astray, I found the device empty, and no amount of pumping the rectangular box yielded another burst.

The creature roared and leapt, tearing my robes to ribbons as it knocked me painfully to the stony ground.


	7. Chapter 7: Visitor

Ever since the ordeal with the ring in Morodor, my sleep has been fitful.

You would have thought destroying the ring in the fires of Mount Doom and knowing it was over would be enough, but it wasn't.

I saw Gollum die.

Mr. Smeagol.

He was a Hobbit once.

Just like me.

The ring is gone, but now a hole is left in its place, like the gap that is left behind when a rotten tooth is removed.

I have discovered that, while we no longer become Ringwraiths, empty shells of our former selves serving the Dark Lord, we still blindly follow our own selfish greed, and it's just the same.

A phantom ring tempts me in my sleep.

I dream I find myself caught in an Orc hunting party, then awake in my bed with an imaginary ring poised over the stump of my ring finger.

When my finger touches the stump, I see the shrouded figures of Black Riders standing over the bed with swords.

On this night, however, they have put their swords away.

They stand above me, placing a Face Grasper over my mouth, and its foul serpent offspring explodes from my chest.

I sit up, gasping and sweating in terror, but the nightmare isn't over.

In the darkness of my rabbit's burrow of a room, I see a bony white shape crouching on my dresser. A naked figure, clad only in a loincloth, and balding on top, the barest of wisps stubbornly clinging to the otherwise hairless surface.

"Nastee Hobbitsses, wicked, filthy Hobbitsses. It sends poor Smeagol down into the fires, he does!"

He jumped silently to the floor, hovering over my bed in a threatening manner, claw-like fingers stretching for my throat.

"Preciouss, we ends its now!"

The creature's personality changes.

"No! We mustn't! Preciouss makess Smeagol jumpses into the hot firess, must get rids of Preciousss. Only way...Previouss makes Smeagol blind..."

He snapped again.

"Wicked Hobbitseess! It cares nothingss for poor Smeagol. Why should Smeagol care for dirty Hobbitses, who makeses his burning noosess!"

I got out of bed, staring at the figure in disbelief. "You're dead!" I cried. "I watched you die!"

"See that!" it hissed. "It watches poor Smeagol die. It dids not tries to helps Smeagol."

"You bit off my finger!" I shouted. "You jumped!"

The pale figure composed himself. "Smeagol does not care what dirty Hobbitsess thinks of Smeagol. Smeagol _knows_ things, doesn't he, Preciouss? Smeagol is wantings to helpses, he helpses nice Hobbitses! Smeagol not wanting the Queen-"

His other personality let out a loud phlegmy hiss. "You will not tell dirty Hobbitses about the Queen! Smeagol should let wicked Hobbitses get eaten! Yess, Preciousss, long live the Queen!" And Gollum giggled like mad.

Smeagol slapped himself. "Shut up!"

He focused on me again. "Hobbitses all in danger, yes they are, Preciouss. Need to send filthy thief Bagginses to the beacon, we do. It calls the Sky Men, it does. Hunters...yess...and chests of weaponss...Hobbitses must be armed."

"Beacon?" I said. "Hunters?"

Before I can get an explanation, Rosie barged in with a bright lamp, eyes still squinting from her interrupted sleep.

"Who are you talking to in here?" she groaned.

I stared at my dresser. My visitor was gone.

A ghost.

"No one," I stammered.

"You still dreaming of that miserable business with the ring?"

I nodded.

"You need a woman," she said. "Whatever happened to that young one you met across the sea?"

For a year, I had sailed the ocean with the seafaring elves. We traveled the ocean, and I encountered a tall brown skinned race that lived in crude little dwellings constructed of animal skins.

They were barbaric as Orcs, but one of the females had taken a liking to me.

She was the nicest creature, but their lifestyle was hard and difficult, and they had such primitive ideas about how the world worked. That and other tribes attacked them all the time. I could only take so much of that.

"She wasn't my type," I said.

"And what is your type?"

I had no answer to that, though, if I were truly honest with myself, I'd probably say she was standing in front of me.

Not something you'd want to confess to your best friend's wife.

"We'll have to see what we can do about this problem, won't we? I'm sure there's a nice Hobbit for you around the corner." She paused. "Or possibly an elf?"

I blushed. She must have noticed how I gazed at elvish women during my send-off at the seaport. The sheer dresses, the long legs...

"Possibly," I stammered.

She smiled. "I'll fix you some of my specialty sleeping draught."

As she turned to leave, I briefly wondered if something more than mere concern had brought her to my room, and out of my best friend's arms.

I shook my head. Surely no good would come from such thoughts.

I tried lying down again, shutting my eyes.

My eyes flew open when I felt a chill on my stomach.

The pale figure was squatting on my blankets, glaring at me with impatience. "Wake, wake!" he practically screamed. "It is a lazy slothful Hobbitses, it is! It actses like Queen restses while it shutses its eyes!"

"What do you want, Smeagol!" I shouted in annoyance. "You're dead! Why won't you leave me alone!"

He just shook his head. "Dirty lazy Hobbitses! Preciouss should let Queen kill every one of them!"

Rosie set a steaming cup on the end table. "I knew it! You're seeing ghosts!"

"What do you know about it?" I groaned.

"Did Sam ever tell you what I do in my spare time?"

I stared at her. "What do you do in your spare time."

"Ever been to a seance?"


	8. Chapter 8: Seance

Sam never informed me that Rosie was a spiritualist, but apparently it was a profitable side business for her.

In seconds, she had everyone spiritually minded in Bag End seated around a table in a darkness illuminated by feeble candles, holding hands as they stared at bones strewn across a rune board.

A glass seeing orb stood ready, reminding me of the great evils of the Pilantir, but Rosie assured me it was merely blown glass, a simple window through which to see the spirits.

Sam looked at me with a mixture of fatigue and annoyance.

I gave him an apologetic shrug, silently communicating, "It was your wife's idea."

He sighed, giving Rosie a sideways glance, nonverbally saying, "This had better be good," and maybe, "I'm starting to have second thoughts about this marriage, but I'm going to go along with this, just this once."

"Spirits of this place," Rosie intoned. "We come to you with a request. We request communication with the spirit that haunts Frodo Baggins, the spirit of Gollum, Smeagol Trahald!"

The table and doors on the nearby sideboard rattled, the framed glass and dishes clattering loudly, as if an earthquake were passing through the burrow.

All the candles blew out, leaving us with only the dim light of the fireplace and the faint illumination of stars reflecting off snow.

Rosie suddenly tensed up, and her previously closed eyes snapped open.

"Precious!" she screamed, grabbing the glass orb.

Cousin Falco ducked just seconds before it shattered against the wall behind his head.

Sam's wife leapt up on the table, sniffing the air. "What is this place!"

Her head whipped around. "Aargh! It is a dirty Hobbitses hole!"

She sniffed her clothing, letting out an animal cry of disgust. "It is foul! Horrible Hobbitses with their nasty scents!"

And then she knelt in front of me.

"It summonses Smeagol from his rest! Why he does it! Smeagol tells it what it needs! Why must poor Smeagol be slaves again!"

I stood up. "You're the one that haunted me! Why won't you leave me alone!"

She let out a low growl. "The Great One...he assks Smeagol, he does! He makeses Smeagol work! Unfinished businesses, he say..."

Rose got down on all fours. "It burns!" she said, tearing at her clothing. "It harms Smeagol's skin!"

And then she was ripping off her shirt and blouse.

"Rose," Sam cried when he saw her working on unfastening her bra. "That's quite enough. This was all jolly fun, but now it has to stop!"

Falco, seeming to sense that the ceremony had ended, set about lighting lamps to bring stronger illumination into the room.

She spun, hissing at him like a wild beast. "Silence, filthy Hobbit!" she screamed. "How does Hobbitses likes it being tied with evil rope that burns it? Maybe Smeagol shows it!"

Sam had a look on his face like he were okay with that, as long as they had a safe word and she didn't pretend she was Gollum.

Rose looked down at her chest and giggled. "Boobies!" And for a few moments, she played with them.

As she ripped off her dress and tugged her bloomers off, I blurted, "Rose, I mean, _Gollum_, could we please get back to the point of all this?"

She fixed me with a cold glare. "What does it mean!"

Blushing, I focused my eyes away from her underclothing. "You woke me in the middle of the night. You ramble about hunters and a beacon, then you won't let me get back to sleep. I want answers!"

"Smeagol tell it everything it needses to knows," she muttered, sitting on the table. "It should figure it out on its owns, it should!"

She glanced back and forth, then peered in her bra again.

"We never had these before! How strange they look!"

I cleared my throat. "The information wasn't enough, Gollum. I have no idea where we're supposed to go, or what we have to do."

Rosie let out Gollum's trademark phlegmy hissing sound. "Stupid foolish Hobbitses! Smeagol can't even rest in his grave without it asking stupid questions!"

And then she pounces, knocking my chair to the floor, with me in it.

Sitting half naked on my chest, she wrapped her hands around my windpipe, attempting to choke me to death. I found it kind of sexy.

"Stupid Hobbitses! It cannots even takes care of itself without Smeagol! It does not deserve to live!"

Her hands felt soft around my neck. Gollum's new body lacked his original strength. I smiled despite the discomfort, causing Rose to shriek in outrage.

"Why is it smiling! Smeagol tries to kill it!"

I was afraid to explain anything with Sam present, so I said nothing.

"Hobbitses loses its mind!"

"This is coming from a being who lives in a cave, eats raw fish, and talks to itself."

She hissed at me angrily.

And then, for reasons I wasn't quite sure of, she got in closer and pressed her nose to my neck, inhaling deeply. Out of the corner of my eye in the dim light, I could see Sam clenching his fists.

Rose jerked back, if startled by something. "What is Smeagol doing!" she cried. "No! This cannot be!"

She began beating her head with her fists.

"Smeagol does not love it! Smeagol does not love anyone bust Smeagol!" But then the other personality said, "Smeagol deceives himself. Smeagol always love Hobbitses! It does! Even before it has boobies!"

By now, Sam's face was beet red, and he seemed to be trying to decide whether to slap her, or kill me.

"No!" she screamed, pulling her hair. "It isn't true!"

"Smeagol was lonely," she replied to herself in a low gutteral tone. "Smeagol watches Hobbitses bathing, he does! He looks! He watchess!"

"No!"

Sam marched up to me, the `I'm going to kill you' expression even more evident on his face. "Did you put her up to this?" he nearly said through his teeth.

I suppressed a chuckle. "What? No! I don't know what in Hel this is!"

He frowned like he didn't believe me.

"Yes, Smeagol, it's true! Smeagol say `I wants to kills the Hobbitses when he really means kiss, he does! Smeagol was afraid!"

I grimaced in mild disgust. Did Gollum really think about these things when he was alive?

Still, she was in a rather attractive body now...

Rose slapped herself hard. "No! You speak lies! Smeagol not listen anymore!"

She climbed off my chest, crunching across the broken glass.

"Come, stupid Hobbitses! Let us find the beacon so Smeagol can rest!"

Rosie burst through the doors of Bag End, running into the cold night in nothing but her underwear.


	9. Chapter 9: Arwen's Illness

The fell beast hissed as its claws dug into my shoulders, its full weight pressing me into the hardened earth.

It had my arms pinned by my sides, immobilized under its crushing weight, and the temporary strength spell I cast previously had drained my body of its soundness and stamina, so I dared not risk it again.

It seemed I would have to resort to a summoning spell of a simpler order. "Help!"

"Gandalf!" Nob cried, causing the creature to turn its elongated head slightly. "Someone help him!"

And then, "Where is your boom stick?"

My boom stick? I thought. From whence did this Hobbit gain such a quaint vocabulary? Was it merely a product of a mind which had lain idle for far too long?

One thing was for certain. If this midget were foolhardy enough to tinker with the device in question, it seemed likely he would succeed in accidentally blasting that idle mind to pieces.

"Never mind that, Hobbit!" I snapped. "Don't meddle in sorcery you don't understand! Just go get help!"

The beast returned its attention to me.

"Yes sir!" said Nob.

The Hobbit broke into a run, bursting through a snowy thicket.

My attacker appeared to give him a sidelong glance, then opened its jaws, revealing a glistening fanged inner mouth, its saliva scalding my flesh as it splattered my cheeks. The pain was excruciating, but I had borne magical items and chemicals which produced equal amounts of pain, possibly more, not to mention the pain of my wartime injuries, so I did not scream, but only renewed my efforts to dislodge this beast from my person.

I closed my eyes and turned my head just seconds before a caustic droplet could cause my vision irreparable damage.

"Hobbit!" I called. "Some help!"

As if in answer to my plea, I observed a massive ax slicing off the front end of the creature's skull like it were a loaf of soft bread.

The beast, of course, collapsed upon me, and I found myself reliving childhood horse riding traumas until a pair of gnarled hands shoved the thing away.

"Puny weakling," I heard the Orc laughing. And then he raised a leathern skin, dumping a clumpy cream colored liquid all over my face. "Here."

I sputtered in disgust. "What-"

"It is milk. To counteract the effects of the acid."

I am not unaccustomed to the taste of milk, or its thick texture, even when it spoils. This was not of a type I familiarized myself with. I almost gagged.

I spat out the wretched substance and sat up. "What manner of milk is this? Goat's milk?"

"No," Skalg chuckled. "It is from my wife."

I spat more heavily, wiping my face with handfuls of snow and the sleeves of my robe.

He only grinned. "Orc custom. It makes us grow strong."

I felt truly convinced that I would vomit soon.

He must have noticed my nausea, for he then added, "If you have truly been with a woman, the thought will not be foreign to you."

"It has never appealed to me to (ahem) _relive my childhood_ in this fashion." I shot him a sour look. "_Or yours_, for that matter."

This only made Skalg laugh.

I stared at him, at a loss as to what to say.

As indebted to this "Skalg" as I was, the Orc insulted me, and inflicted me with the fruit of his wife's mammaries, the revolting experience I can compare only to the laborious process of canning troll mucus.

If the rumors about Orc wives were true, they were the most loathsome creatures on Middle Earth, warty, covered in weeping sores, with hideously deformed shapeless bodies.

However, as I had felt the burning sensation subsiding from my face the moment he had doused me, I supposed that some gratefulness was in order.

Rising to my feet, I cleared my throat, looked the Orc straight in the eye, and said, "Well. It seems that your king has chosen his bodyguards wisely."

The Orc gave me a nod, responding with a bear-like "Hmm."

And then another puzzling thought occurred to me. "How did you know what would counteract the burning of this beast's saliva? Are you also an alchemist?"

Before he could answer, Aragorn pushed the foliage aside with a noisy rustle, the Hobbit following close behind.

"Only three of the Face Graspers remain," the king said as he entered our grisly vignette of death.

He swore softly as he discovered the corpses of his guards.

I watched as he knelt before the man, shaking his head. "May you feast with the Great Lords in the Timeless Halls for this sacrifice."

He moved on to the female, gently touching her cheek. "Sayaka..."

He kissed her hands and folded them across her chest.

To the best of my knowledge, the man was married. To a half elven queen. His gesture seemed to hint at the deceased being a concubine of sorts.

I broached the subject as tactfully as I could manage. "You two were close, I take it."

"I am close to all my guards," Aragorn said, sounding indignant. "These are not mere mercenaries. They are my friends."

"How is Arwen these days?" I asked.

He sighed a weary sigh. "Not well. She fell deathly ill from a disease for which we had no known cure. Twice I have sought the elves' assistance, but they were, alas, unable to affect a cure.

"Knowing you to be a mysterious and busy man, I did not presume upon your assistance. Instead, I called my subjects, offering money for the cure, and to my surprise, my friend and ally Sayaka, already among the royal guard, proved to be a wealth of medical knowledge. The herbs and potions she supplied Arwen alleviated her pain and restored her vitality. For a time, at least."

His expression darkened. "When her health again was on the decline, I sent summons for you, but you were not to be found."

I swallowed, but it was not the first time a friend had made claims of abandonment. "I was otherwise occupied."

"You're a wizard, Gandalf," Nob said. "Isn't there some way you can, I don't know, create a little box that can turn letters into air, and transmit them across the country? You know, so king Aragorn will always be able to contact you?"

I looked at him like he were crazy. "From whence do you get these absurd notions?"

He just shrugged.

"Even if this preposterous idea could actually be executed, I'd have to carry a blasted box around with me everywhere! What would be the point of that? What if I don't..."

A glance at Aragorn told me it would be better not to imply that I hadn't wanted to talk to him in his time of need.

Instead I covered with, "It's ridiculous."

"What if there's a fire?" he asked.

"Are you suggesting the entire bucket brigade would also need one of these devices?"

He gave me a look that said "Why not."

I shook my head. Before he could delve into further ridiculous fancies, such as possibly sending instant messages to taverns about food delivery, I deflected the conversation by focusing on Aragorn. "You were telling me of Arwen."

He nodded. "When her condition worsened, I sent out another messenger, but then these accursed `demons' descended from the sky."

"So she is still alive?" I ventured.

"Yes. But only just. That was part of the reason why I came this way. As soon as we eliminate your Face Graspers here, we must return to Minas Tirith with haste. We do not have much time. Already I fear we have lost her."

He stood over the bodies, turning his back to me as he wept.

"Your highness," I heard Skalg saying. "Should I place these bodies on the pyre with the bald priest?"

Aragorn gave him a dismissive wave. "Do what you see fit."

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Wait! What bald priest?"

I was answered by a deafening explosion, and a storm of deadly flying arrowheads.


End file.
